A Piece Missing
by celinenaville
Summary: Angst and a bit of a character study. Set somewhere around Season 4 or 5, after Dean returns from Hell. Both brothers find themselves changed, though neither of them recognize it in themselves, they recognize it in each other. Angsty Dean and Angst-ridden Sam. T for some language and subject matter. *COMPLETED*
1. Chapter 1

Sam gave a furtive glance to Dean, his familiar profile outlined against the glass of the Impala driver's side window. Dean looked tired. He looked _old_ somehow. Sam noticed how the lines of his face had deepened: the sudden crows feet at the corners of his eyes. In a matter of months, it seemed that Dean had gone from boyishly handsome to the haunted look of a combat veteran. How was it even possible for the lines to appear so quickly? Sam thought on it and realized the face probably wasn't lined at all, but that Dean's perpetually half-guarded expressions made it appear that way. The change was startling and Sam hadn't even noticed it until now. Sam's eyes fell on his brother again. The way he carried himself - hell, even the way he was sitting behind the driver's wheel was altered.

Before Dean Winchester always had that wide-eyed enthusiasm, that cocky smirk that always hovered on the edge of his lips. He'd roll the windows down, crank up the same nauseating classic rock tracks and belt them out, happy to be wherever he was going. Happy to be with Sam.

Now Dean sat quietly, shoulders hunched, like the world weighed on them, fingers tight on the steering wheel like he was sailing "Baby" through a rocky sea. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw tight- and Dean, _his_ Dean, was nowhere to be found. Occasionally maybe, in some shadow of his former humor or the appreciative looks he gave to an attractive woman, but his entire energy felt different. It stifled Sam where he sat in the car.

Dean felt his eyes on him and glanced sideways, his eyebrow raising quizzically. "Dude, what?"

Sam dropped his gaze, sank his chin to his chest. "Nothing. Lost in thought."

Dean snorted and rolled his shoulders. He momentarily took his foot off the gas and shifted in the seat.

"Sam," Dean said huskily. " I can feel you staring at me like some crazy Stepford Wife."

"You don't play your music anymore."

Dean looked shocked. "Huh? Well the cassette's in the player." He reached for it and slid it in. "You could just ask, dude."

Sam huffed and shook his head fractionally. Leave it to Dean to not understand what he was saying. Dean fell into silence again, that brooding silence that meant that he was lost in his own thoughts. Sam almost wanted to start a fight. Start something that would elicit a reaction from his brother that would lead to anything resembling normal Dean behavior. Instead, he remained silent and closed his eyes against a sudden swell of emotion.

"Dude." Dean's voice again. The car slowed fractionally. "Are you having your period? What the hell?"

There he was. A glimpse of him, hidden beneath all those layers of pain and stress and guilt. One side of Sam's mouth curved up into a humorless grin. Sam opened his eyes when he was certain he could control his emotions. He looked straight ahead. But he could see Dean glancing nervously at him from his peripheral vision.

"Van Halen songs make you sad all of the sudden?"

"You make me sad," Sam replied, knowing Dean would take it as sarcasm. "Jerk."

There was a very long pause and Sam wasn't sure he'd say it. Then finally in a quiet undertone, "Bitch."

It made Sam tear up again and he had to look out the car window and watch the scenery whiz by. Dean. _His_ Dean. His protector. His anchor. God, he never thought he'd miss the the constant teasing, the penchant for obnoxious behavior, that mischievous light in the green eyes that meant trouble was not far behind. The reckless abandon. The annoying bossiness. The cocky asshole. Sam's chest tightened and he breathed through it. The stranger behind the wheel was silent and Sam realized then that he missed his brother.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's attention was on Sam now. He caught the weirdly emotional expression that had come over the features with no outside prompting. It unnerved him, although at least some emotion was better than the constant indifference Sam seemed to have toward him since he returned from Hell. His Sammy didn't seem to be there anymore. Everything about him was changed. The boyish innocence replaced with a brooding secretiveness so unlike him. He had gone to Hell for Sam and returned to find Sam gone anyway. Mostly.

He could still elicit a pissy huff or the occasional eye roll if he pushed Sam's buttons hard enough, but there was a steely resolve and an unspoken angry power about him now that Dean didn't understand. He'd always counted on Sam's gentle nature and kind humanity to keep him in check and now...now it seemed reversed. It seemed Sam was no longer the moral compass he could count on to point him in the right direction. Dean felt like some secret was weighing him down. He wondered what Sam had done the entire time he'd been in the Hell. What he'd really done. Somehow he suspected that he wouldn't like it.  
And that's what struck him suddenly. The man next to him was Sam. But Sammy... Sammy was gone.

The little boy who rested in the crook of Dean's shoulder, who he taught to ride a bike, the one that looked up to his older brother. He was changed. Dean swallowed a lump in his throat and blinked back tears. He couldn't let them fall, if he did he knew he'd never stop crying. There was a pain, an emptiness inside his chest that made him feel like he was suffocating. He wanted help. He wanted to reach out to Sam-even had a few times, and he'd been rebuffed. Sam had listened dispassionately to his description of Hell. He offered no advice. Shed no tears, just listened quietly while Dean poured his heart out. It wasn't what he'd needed. Sam used to know things like that.

What had he done to his Sammy? When Dean had bargained to bring his brother back, it never even occurred to him how Sam would be affected by it. Dean had been awash with pain, pain so staggering he couldn't bear it. He'd gone to the crossroads to strike a deal to bargain for Sam's life. He didn't realize that maybe he had pissed away Sam's soul in the deal. Maybe he'd lost Sam that night after all. He'd only known that he, Dean, would not have survived without his brother. Could not have. He had known Sam could go on without him-just like he had at Stanford but it never occurred to him that Sam would be changed by the experience. And now - now it felt like a chasm lay between them.

Dean couldn't remember what happiness felt like. He could remember a glimpse of Sammy and that's what he recalled when he thought about contentment. His stubborn obstinate nature. His gentle strength. His centeredness that Dean depended on. His big heart. Where were they? Sitting next to him was a man of steely resolve, quiet anger, and cold logic. A man much like John Winchester had been. But a man Sam Winchester was never meant to be. Dean felt his heart constrict a little. He wished he could pull his thoughts away from his life- away from Hell. Away from worrying about Sam. Away from the guilt that threaten to crush him. His palms were sweaty against the steering wheel and he could feel Sam's judging eyes on him

He wanted to reach out and smack him upside the head with a glancing blow and make fun of him for being a pussy. But he didn't think that the stranger beside him would appreciate it. He wanted things to be the way they were. He wanted to tell Sam he loved him; he needed him. With a heart broken urgency, Dean realized he missed his brother. He missed him so much.

 **Thoughts? Musings? Should I keep going? I tend to write this stuff out long hand so it helps me decide whether I should bother typing it out if I know people like it. Thanks! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

Sam had found himself utterly lost after Dean's death. Cut loose from any and all ties to those he loved and floundering to stay afloat, grabbing desperately for a life line. He found one and unfortunately, that was Ruby. At first she was merely a co-conspirator, but somewhere along the line that had shifted into a lover and ultimately, a friend of sorts. He couldn't tell Dean. Dean wouldn't understand. Dean probably didn't understand why Sam, who had just resigned himself to his brother's death, reacted with apprehension and fear when he'd shown up at the door unannounced without a scratch on him.

Why even after Sam had realized it was Dean there, he hadn't melted into an embrace full of grateful tears. He was in shock. Shock and then guilt and anxiety as Ruby, wearing a different body, slinked away.

That body had been Sam's undoing. The dark eyes, the full lips, the curtain of dark hair. The way she pressed against him telling him that she was warm and soft- and Sam hated himself for it but he was so pent up. So twisted around, so unhinged, that he just wanted to lose himself in the oblivion of it. He gave in reluctantly and at first it almost felt like he was being violated but then, then it felt good.

Besides with Dean gone, nothing seemed to matter anymore. Not morals or ethics or who slept with whom. Dean would have done it himself, he reasoned. But then with Dean facing him at the door, Sam had to wonder... Would he have? Maybe his brother had stronger moral fortitude than himself. Five months ago that would have been a laugh. But now... Now Sam wasn't so sure.

Everything with Dean was black and white. Demons were bad. But Sam had to believe that if _he_ could be good with his demon blood, maybe, just maybe Ruby could as well. Besides Dean had been wrong about the trusting the Angels because from where Sam stood, he couldn't differentiate between the two. Where did that leave him?

He had needed Ruby and right now he felt less estranged with her than with Dean. That worried him a little. She knew what to say. When he came to her weak and needy, she put her arms around him, ran her fingers through his hair and crooned, "Shhh, Sammy its okay." And for a moment or two he could pretend it was. But it wasn't. He didn't see how it could ever be OK again.


	4. Chapter 4

The only time that Dean didn't feel like he was dying anymore- was already dead- was when he was in a woman's arms. Or piss drunk. But being drunk was only anesthesia, it didn't make him feel better. It only numbed him.

Dean Winchester had always loved sex, but before it have been an expression of his appetite for life, a joyous act of feeling good, living in the moment- flooding him with those endorphins he got when he bit into a good piece of pie. Since he'd returned from Hell, it was the only thing that made the voices in his head stop. The doubt, the recriminations, the pain- all silenced as he slipped into the zen that was woman.

He wanted the sex- _of course_ he did. But most of all what he wanted was to be held. In a woman's arms, cradled against her breast, her arms encircling him, his arms encircling her, his head against the comforting rise and fall of her chest. Soft and warm and safe. It wasn't love of course. Or true intimacy, but it was the illusion of it. It was what he wanted.

Dean didn't know how to express his emotions. He never had. They were powerfully strong, but he'd never been able to vocalize what he was feeling. To do so frustrated him, gave him a tightness in his chest that if he looked deeper he would have been able to place as anxiety.

Not like Sam. Sam was at home expressing himself with a verbal acuity denied his brother. He had no shyness expressing his feelings, a trait that caused him and his father to butt heads like rams competing for territory. Dean was at home with the physical. Instead of an _I love you, Sammy_ , It was a gentle smack upside the head. Or a noogie. An arm around his shoulders if he was feeling truly generous. Sam tolerated the displays with good grace, sometimes returned the favor with a slap of his own. He'd a learned long ago to save his vocalizations for others better adapted to life than the Winchester line.

And so it was that Dean found that he was able to express himself quite easily with women in the physical realm. It was his comfort zone, and one where if he silently reached for her and pulled her into his arms -she would generally respond by melting into his embrace. And for a brief respite, Dean wasn't strung up on a rack in Hell or worried sick about the growing gap between he and his brother, or feeling guilty for what his dad had done to save him. He was safe. Warm and soft and safe.


	5. Chapter 5

I **f you anyone has the time, please dash off a review. Curious to know what you think. I cried writing this chapter on Sam for some reason. Funny how these things can be weirdly cathartic.**

 **Chapter 5**

Sam didn't remember exactly _when_ he'd become set like a steamroller on his chosen path. He only knew that whenever he had set his mind to something he couldn't be swayed. It's why he'd graduated with high honors instead of dropping out of high school. It's why when he set his course for Stanford- he found a way to get a full scholarship and simply gone-Hell or high water. It was why in the past, his morality could not be swayed. It wasn't that he hadn't been tempted by women or food or drink, but unlike Dean, his rigid self-control kept him from it.

He only knew that after Dean had left him, the soft spot of his heart that had been "Sammy" had scarred over and left in its wake a tenacious purpose. Destroy Lilith. It's all he had lived for. And then Dean had returned and even though, perhaps, that should have caused him to change tracks, he stayed the course. Doggedly.

He missed Dean. The humor. The zest for life. The sheer energy and the light that had been his brother. And sometimes he missed himself too. He missed his innocence. His compassion. The part of him that leaned on Dean. Dean allowed him to be soft. He could be soft where Dean was hard. Gentle where Dean was rough. Light where Dean was dark. And then without that balance, without his brother to define himself by, he had to harden himself to survive. He couldn't afford to be Sam anymore. Not _that_ part of Sam anyway. Sometimes he felt like Sam Winchester had died the day the hellhounds tore Dean apart. He'd cried and cried and when he finally stopped crying, it was like all the tears had dried up and left nothing but an angry resolve. If he drew too close to Dean, he was afraid that his brother's weariness would rub off on him, tether him down like a weighted chain.

That's all he'd ever seen his family as, fetters that blocked his way to freedom. Oh, he _loved_ them, even his father, but he recognized their co- dependency and instead of embracing it, as Dean had once done, he fought it, as was his nature. Sometimes he didn't want to fight. Sometimes he wished that there were still tears left to cry. Sometimes he wished that he could lend Dean a hand without losing his own grip on reality. Sometimes he wished he were still _Sammy._

 **Chapter 6**

Dean didn't remember exactly _when_ he decided he wanted to die. When he first returned from Hell-life felt like a second chance- until all the flashes of memories fell together like a horrible jigsaw puzzle and he remembered exactly what had happened to him. What he had done. How he had broken. And with that knowledge, his new found purpose had shattered into a thousand pieces.

And then slowly but surely, he wanted to die.

He tried to hide it as best he could, go through the motions, pretend to be Dean. Do Dean things-but his capacity to feel anything but sorrow and loneliness and hopelessness seemed to be gone. He felt like he was drowning. Drowning and searching for someone to rescue him. He didn't want to go to Heaven. He didn't want to go to Hell. He merely wanted to cease to exist. To curl into a ball and fade away into a vast nothingness. And so Dean floundered. He muddled his way through each day, drawing further and further into himself. Drinking more and more to squelch his emotions. He instinctively wanted Sammy, but Sam seemed too remote and unyielding. Not a life preserver at all, more like an anchor that dragged him farther under the waves- tethering him to the ocean floor.

He didn't know how to be Dean Winchester anymore. His faith in his father had broken. His faith in Sam. His faith in himself. His faith in his purpose. All in tatters. He felt like he was trying to build a sandcastle while the tide rolled in and demolished everything he created. Dean was tired. He was _so_ goddamn tired.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam couldn't sleep, tossing and turning possibilities endlessly through his mind. He rolled onto his side and his gaze found Dean in the darkness, sprawled on the bed across from his. Light slanted through the window and illuminated Dean's handsome face. His head was turned sideways towards Sam as he lay on his stomach, sprawled in the same position he always had since childhood. The pose was as familiar as the man himself. Yet even now, Sam could see the lines of worry etched into the corners of his mouth. The way he held his eyes tightly closed, even in his sleep. The clenched jaw and tightened shoulders. Even in repose, Dean's suffering was evident. Relentless.

Sam watched him twitch and close his eyes tighter. His breathing sped up, hitched and rapid and Sam waited for him to startle awake, as he often did. There was a time, not even a year ago, when Dean's pained groans would have broken Sam's heart. Truth be told, sometimes they did. Especially when Dean awoke with a choked sob and sat up, cheeks streaked with tears. Times like that, Sam pretended to be asleep. Pretended not to notice. He let Dean keep his dignity. But now that his brother was unaware of Sam's scrutinizing gaze, he studied him dispassionately and wondered exactly when he stopped feeling Dean's pain as his own. When he realized how utterly broken his brother was. How weak. How changed. Dean fisted his hands into the fitted sheets, has dark voice muttering a litany of "No! No! No." Sam almost wanted to wake him, although he was reticent to for no other reason than that Dean Winchester was a dangerous man to awaken if he was in fight mode.

"Dean," he said lowly.

Did Dean ever really rest anymore? It certainly didn't seem it. This didn't qualify as rest.

"Dean," he said more loudly.

Dean's eyes snapped open and he sprang up into a sitting position, blinking dazzedly. "What?"

"Dude, you're having a nightmare."

Dean's shoulders slumped and he seemed to diminish before Sam's eyes. "Oh." He breathed. He saw Dean glance in his general direction. "Sorry to wake you."

"Ditto," Sam replied, rolling over onto his back. "You okay?" Sam asked quietly, staring at the ceiling.

"I'm fine," came the expected obligatory response.

"Of course you are," Sam responded.

Dean looked at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Sam kept his eyes on the ceiling. It was an opening for a fight. The Sam he'd been before would have walked right into it. -Seen the opening volley and served it right back with "You know what I mean" or an "I'm not an idiot, Dean. I know you're not alright." But now... now he paused and measured his response. Did he want to get into it with his brother? Did he care enough to? Would it change anything? Dean had already told him what had happened in Hell and unburdening himself didn't seem to help one iota. In fact, giving voice to it seem to make him worse.

"Nothing," Sam replied flatly. He bunted the ball back into Dean's court. If he felt like pursuing it, he would respond with a "Don't tell me nothing." Instead, Dean seemed to accept the lame excuse at face value. He stood up walked to the bathroom and closed the door. For some odd reason Sam almost felt disappointed at the response. Perhaps because the Dean he'd known before would have shot off a salvo without hesitation, willing to start a war over a perceived weakness. This Dean simply accepted it and moved on. And this Sam had let him.

* * *

Dean splashed some water on his face and tried to control his breathing. He looked in the mirror and hated what he saw. Weakness. Fatigue. Coming apart at the seams while his little brother watched. He shut the water off and wiped his face, turned away from the mirror before he had to look at his own haunted green eyes. He sat heavily on the closed toilet lid and dropped his head into his hands.

He'd almost wanted to fight with Sam. Sam's pissy "Of course you are" had pushed that old Dean button and set him on edge, but then- then he'd lost the urge as soon as it had occurred. What did it matter? Fighting with Sam took too much effort. He had to care about something to fight about it. And right now he didn't care about anything, really.

Except Sam. Always, always Sam.

Dean never thought about why he clung to his brother with such ferocity. He assumed it was because he was family, but if he'd allowed himself to analyze it at all, he would have realized that Sammy had been his life line. Some part of him knew this. It was why he knew that he would have killed himself had he not made the deal to bring Sam back. Why he knew, quite simply, without Sam there was no Dean. In his childhood, when everyone and everything had abandoned him: his mom, his home, stability, his father... When they'd been tossed from motel to motel, city to city, school to school, his one constant besides the Impala, was Sam. Always Sam. Whether he was laughing or crying or frightened or angry, there was Sam. Watching him underneath that fringe of brown bangs.

It was why Sam leaving for college had been like a gunshot wound. Why it had felt so good to have him back, to be hunting together and why now when he'd returned from Hell to find _this_ version of Sam he felt like he was drowning. _'God, Sam. Try!_ ' he thought. _'Try to reach out for me. Please. I'm too tired to reach out for you.'_ He waited for Sam's tentative knock on the door. Anticipated it. But there was nothing. Only silence, except the noise of Dean's own breathing.

 **Just fixed a couple of typos that got by me at 1 AM. Thank you so much for the reviews.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Buckle up. We're going from angst to full on pathos. The boys made me do it!**

Sam stepped out of the shower and wiped the fog off of the mirror. His own face greeted him. He looked good. Strong. He noted that the softness of his features was slowly giving way to a sharper more angular look. Sam. Only a Sam carved from granite. He finished brushing his teeth and open the door to the bathroom. A puff of steam escaped with him.

Dean was seated on the old motel room chair, an ice pack pressed against shoulder. He was bent over the tiny table, leaning his head in his hand. As he leaned forward, the pendant Sam have given him when they were children swung freely from its leather thong. He was nursing glass of whiskey. He didn't look up when Sam shed his towel and moved to get dressed. Strange how familiar they were with each other, Sam thought. How little they even took note of each other, like 20 year old wallpaper you just stop seeing after a while.

Sam used the towel to rub his hair dry and looked at Dean again. "There's still hot water left if you want to soak that shoulder", he offered.

Dean was silent.

"You okay?" Sam almost winced as he said it because, obviously, Dean was anything but okay and also that line of questioning never achieved anything.

"I'm fine, Sammy." Came the gruff response.

So they were going to play this again. Should he leave it?

"Okay." Sam shrugged. He waited a moment and couldn't take it anymore."Dean, _what_ is with you?"

Without moving his head, Dean rolled his eyes up to look at his brother. "Shoulder hurts." He deflected.

Sam just didn't care enough to push. He don't want to waste his focus doing it... but then... he looked at Dean's expression. _Really_ looked and he couldn'tlet it go. "I don't even know who you are anymore."

That got Dean's attention and he snapped his head up. "That's rich. _You_ don't know who I am? Have you looked in a freaking mirror lately?"

 _Well yes I have,_ Sam thought.

"I come back from Hell to find this freaking... _gladiator..._ where my brother used to be."

Sam bristled, a spark of indignant anger rising in his chest. "You were _gone_ , Dean. I had no one."

"You could have had Bobby if you didn't run off with some demon bitch."

Sam took a menacing step forward. " _Don't._ Even. You have no clue what you're talking about."

Dean smirked and shook his head."Whatever. " He picked up his glass to take a sip and Sam closed the gap, snatched it out of his hand and threw it onto the ground. It broke into a thousand pieces.

Dean looked shocked. "What the fuck, Sammy?"

"You left me alone!"

Surprisingly, Dean met the anger with an eye roll. He sat back in his chair. "Wasn't exactly a choice."

"It was a choice. You didn't have to bring me back. You could have left me dead. You brought this on yourself and now you're holding me responsible."

"I'm not holding you responsible," Dean muttered.

"All you do is drink! You don't eat! You don't talk! You shut me out. Dean Winchester never got out of Hell because this isn't my brother!"

Dean stood up to walk away. "I don't have to listen to this."

Sam grabbed his shirt collar and slammed Dean against the wall. "Yes. You. Do."

Dean shoved him away and Sam finally saw the light of anger spark in those green eyes. "You know what Sam? You're right. I'm still in Hell." He swept his hand around the room. "Because this is fucking hell! I sacrifice _everything_ for you. Everything. My whole fucking life!" He was genuinely shouting now.

Sam stood his ground glaring angrily." No one ever asked you to do that, Dean. You don't get to do that and then blame me for it."

Dean's eyes went wide, a spark of panic in them. "I started the apocalypse, Sam! I spent 40 years in hell and broke like a little bitch and I'm being used by angels in some head trippy chess match and I can't forfeit the game! You know how that feels? Do you have any fucking idea?" Dean turned and drove his fist right through the drywall. Sam retreated a step in shock.

When he turned back to Sam, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Two thoughts chased through Sam's mind. The first was: _He's so god damn weak._ The second, from the part of him that was still recognizable as the boy he'd been simply thought: _oh my god. Poor Dean_. There was silence as they stood facing each other down. It was punctuated by the sound of their panting breaths.

Sam watched Dean's pendant reflect the light as his chest rose and fell. His fist was starting to bleed at the knuckles.

"You can't blame me for where you are, Sam." Dean said lowly. "I can't take it."

"I don't blame you..." Sam started.

"Really? Because that sounded like an awful lot of freakin blame just now."

Whose fault was it? Sam considered. They could blame each other all they wanted but where they were was both of their faults and neither of them.

"I have the _world_ on my shoulders." Dean's voice was husky. "I can't have you there too. I wish to hell Dad had just let me die."

Sam bristled. "Yeah, well, he didn't. You can't change that."

The sheer weariness rolling off of his brother threatened to break Sam down too. He wouldn't do that. Couldn't do that. He had a mission.

Dean sank back against the wall. He looked weary and distinctly ill; the freckles on the bridge of his nose stood out among the pallor. He had stopped crying but he still looked like hell. Sam had never seen his brother look this bad-even when he'd hovered on the verge of death. This was different. This wasn't a physical ailment, it was something spiritual - something in Dean's very soul. He was broken. There was no other way around it.

"I don't know how to help you." Sam said in frustration. "I don't know what you want."

"I want my _brother._ " Dean shot back.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean watched Sam's blue green eyes studying him. -Saw several thoughts chase through his mind. His lips moved like he was framing a response and he stepped back. "I'm right here," he said finally. But not with an emphatic Sammy response, instead in a slightly measured tone. It set off some sort of anxiety in Dean. Something that twisted his stomach and made a hollow feeling in his heart. He was scared that they would never be what they had been.

The thought hit Dean like a wave of loss. He felt bile rise in his throat.

Sam read the expression and a hint of alarm registered on his face. "Are you going to be sick?"

Dean shook his head. His legs gave out suddenly and he slid down the wall to land on his ass on the ancient motel room carpet. He didn't care. He didn't have enough fight left to even have pride about it.

"Come on Dean," Sam said, his tone somewhere between pleading and frustrated.

Sam's hands were on the collar of Dean's green shirt and hauling him up to his feet. He made himself a dead weight.

" _Come on_!" Sam yelled. "Get up! Man up! God _dammit!_ "

"Leave me alone," Dean growled.

"You're acting like a child!" Sam slammed him up against the wall and Dean almost welcomed the pain that raced up his injured shoulder.

His lip curled into a snarl. "I'm a child?" He said, "I've been an adult since I was five and raising your sorry ass."

Sam's face twisted into an expression of anguish and for the first time since he'd been back Dean thought that maybe his brother was going to cry. Or hit him. He wasn't sure which. Sam set Dean on his feet and this time the elder Winchester held his own weight. Sam leaned very, very close to him so that their foreheads were almost touching, still holding on to Deans collar. "I'm sorry for what you've been through," he said. "I am so sorry."

He released Dean and took a step back. "But I can't let you take me down with you."

Sam rolled his shoulders and let out a loud huff. Dean saw the walls of reserve come back up.

"I'm going out," Sam walked to the door and opened it.

"Run to your demon bitch," Dean said.

Sam closed his eyes and opened them again. When he looked at Dean, his expression was a mix of anger, betrayal and sheer vulnerability. "Take care of your damn shoulder," he said and slammed the door. Dean crumpled back down to the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam's first impulse had been to contact Ruby but Dean's knowing remark about running to his "demon bitch" stopped him. Dean was right and he resented it. Sam hunched his shoulders against the chill night air. In his hurry, he had left the room without a jacket.

What _was_ he doing? Running away from his own brother? Had things gotten that bad that he had to run away like he had years ago to Stanford? Was that always going to be his reaction when things got tough? Run away?

But it was the only time he felt he could get clarity. Dean's moods affected him greatly. They always had. And with his brother so depressed, he felt the dark cloud that hovered over Dean pulling at him, sucking away any rationale. And he couldn't help him. He saw, he _felt_ that Dean wanted _something_ , but as usual his brother couldn't voice it. It frustrated Sam. It made him angry. Sometimes it made him furious.

-Impatient with Dean for being so emotionally crippled that he couldn't articulate what he was feeling and furious at his father for making Dean that way. And then angry at Dean again for trading his soul to Hell in the first place. It was Dean's own fault. It was.

And there was still some part of him was angry that Dean had brought him back at all. For a bit, Sam was dead. At peace. And it all could have ended there. But no, his stubborn ass of a brother had to meddle and bring him back into the maelstrom of bullshit that had been his life since he was a child.

Sam kicked a park bench as he passed. He was frustrated at Dean for giving up. Yet some part of him understood. Or did he? Sam ran his fingers through his still damp hair. Now he was frustrated that he couldn't get the questions in his mind to stop. He was so sick of being angry. He was angry that he was angry.

Sam growled. It was too fucking cold to be out. He turned and headed back to the Impala-at least the windows would shield him from the wind. He could turn on the heat if he needed to. He couldn't head back to the motel yet. Baby welcomed him as he unlocked her door. He slammed it shut and settled in the back, stretching his legs out along the leather bench seat and leaning his back against the window. She smelled like home.

He thought of nights he and Dean huddled together for warmth as children when their dad left them there overnight. Motels weren't always available. They built blanket forts and crawled around her interior, telling stories of improbable scenarios. They played games. They fought over stupid shit. _Like now_ , Sam thought. Across the way he saw the tiny faint helmet of the plastic soldier Sam had crammed into the ashtray when they were kids. He snorted. They never could get the fucking thing out. He was fairly surprised to see it there. Usually it was not visible, shoved too far in to see unless you were directly over it and looked down. Something must have shaken it loose. The accident? He wondered.

Something about it made him miss Dean terribly. The anger dissipated and he thought of his brother's pale features- lost, hurt, drowning. Sam realized with a pang that Dean had probably spent most of his life that way - covering it up with bravado. The bravado was gone now, leaving Dean naked. A decision struck him suddenly. Resolutely, Sam got out and closed the door.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean was genuinely surprised when Sam opened the door to the motel room. He figured that it would take hours for him to cool off. Yet here he was, carrying a couple bags of takeout, coming in like nothing was wrong.

Dean hadn't moved from his spot on the floor, he felt vaguely embarrassed by that as Sam's gaze flicked over him. "Here." Sam tossed him one of the brown paper bags, which he caught deftly with one hand.

"They didn't have any burger joints in walking distance. I got you a few tacos."

Dean raised an eyebrow. He couldn't frame a response. He watched Sam open his bag and bite into a burrito. "Did you have to get one of those?" Dean was surprised how husky his voice sounded. Almost hoarse from yelling earlier. "I have to sleep in here, you know."

Sam's dimples appeared as he suppressed a grin. "Tough."

"Evil, man. Pure evil." Dean looked at his bag, contemplated eating. His stomach rumbled.

Sam knitted his eyebrows together. "Hey, you like tacos don't you? Even got extra sauce for you."

Dean was silent. "Yeah," he said finally.

Sam moved forward and sank down on the floor across from his brother. He leaned his back casually against the bed and folded one of his impossibly long legs under himself. He took a sip of soda. After a moment, he held it out to Dean as an offering. "It's coke. Want a sip?"

Dean hesitated, unsure how to read him. He had expected stony silence, tension, bitchiness. The soda felt like a peace offering. Dean reached across the gap between them and took it. The coolness of the sweaty paper cup felt good against his fingers and the coldness felt even better against his throat as he drank. He started on a taco, the crunch of the shell impossibly loud in the silence.

"This is pretty good," he mumbled around a mouthful of food. For a brief second he felt a little like Dean again. Sam was watching him patiently, his long bangs falling into his eyes.

"Dude, you need a haircut," Dean teased.

Sam snorted, rolled his eyes in a very archetypal "Sammy" expression. "Whatever, Mr. Clean."

"I'm not bald, I'm respectable."

"Of course you are." Sam went quiet again.

"Okay," Dean said cautiously. "I'm feeling a chick flick moment coming on."

"No," Sam said softly. "No. I know they stress you out. I've been trying to give you your space but I think maybe that was the wrong thing to do."

Dean crunched another taco. "This sounds decidedly chick flicky."

Sam smirked. "You're such an ass." There it was, a glimpse of his _Sammy_ hiding under all those layers of angry reserve. The off-handed insult somehow moved Dean. Gave him a lump in his throat. He looked at his brother sitting on the floor like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like it was a comfortable and acceptable, normal alternative to chairs. When it was anything but. The thought crossed Dean's mind that Sam was _trying_ , genuinely _trying_ to be there. Trying to bridge the gap between them.

"Thanks for the tacos, Sammy." Dean said genuinely. He prayed that Sam would read what he really meant behind the words. _Thank you for being here_.

"You know," Sam said. "It hasn't been easy, my life. I mean, I've had you as a best friend for 26 years."

Dean watched the dimples appear again.

Dean snort-laughed. "I try to make things hard to toughen you up, bitch!" He said with false bravado.

"See?" Sam shook head in fake disapproval.

He looked up and their eyes locked meaningfully. They held the contact until it became uncomfortable. Dean broke away first, the air suddenly felt heavy with words unsaid. He cleared his throat. "I just... um..." he felt his pulse pick up. "Haven't felt too good, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam said, calmly. "It's okay, you don't have to explain."

Dean rubbed the back of his own neck and narrowed his eyes. "Yeah," he said, grateful for the permission to get out of further explanation. "I," he hesitated, unsure of what he even wanted to say. Sam sat across from him- quiet, patient, listening - he was good at that. His brow furrowed with that slight look of concern he got when he was fully engaged in a conversation. It was familiar, comfortable. He remained silent, waiting for the stillness between them to drag whatever it was that Dean needed to say out to him.

"I'm not the man I thought I was." Dean shocked himself as he said it. He hadn't quite known that, but it felt like the truth. Dean dropped his gaze to his hands on his lap.

Sam remained still, then quietly, "I'm not sure any of us are in the end."

Dean looked up. Sam was gazing at him honestly. "The shit we've been through," Sam continued. "I mean Dean - _human beings_ aren't meant to go through _any_ of this. Maybe there's a learning curve here, huh? There's no _How to Deal with Hell Handbook,_ right?"

Dean snorted. "Maybe I should write one: _The Crossroads Manual."_

Sam smiled, but Dean noticed that his eyes were very sad. He'd had that expression since he was a kid, but there was a weight behind it now that he hadn't seen there before. Dean felt responsible. The way he felt responsible for everything.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam saw something abruptly shift in his brother. The joke had been typical-expected, but then he watched a shadow pass over that handsome face and knew Dean's thoughts had strayed to something dark.

 _Shit,_ he thought. _Should have left well enough alone._ It was so hard navigating the minefield of Dean Winchester's emotions. He longed for the simplicity of Ruby's Tell- It- Like- It -Is relationship and then abruptly felt guilty for it. Almost dirty.

"You can't do that. You'd have to know how to read first." He joked, praying his brother would take the jibe well.

Dean shrugged with a wan smile...but no smartass comeback. He still looked tired, empty. For the space of time it took them to eat, there had been that _light-_ that incandescent _light_ that had been DEAN WINCHESTER...and then it was snuffed out like a candle. The glimpse made Sam miss his brother with a voracious, unreasonable ache-like he was gone and not sitting across from him.

"Okay," Dean groaned as he hauled himself to his feet. "My ass has gone completely numb." He limped a step. "And my leg too, apparently I'm too old for this."

"Jesus...you're barely 30." Sam's scoffed.

"In the words of a wise man, it's not the years it's the mileage."

Sam's brows knitted together. "Wait...Wasn't that Indiana Jones?"

Dean nodded. "He counts. He's a college professor."

Sam smirked. "Clearly one of the great minds of our time."

"I've got to take a leak." Dean limped to the bathroom and closed the door. Somehow, the slamming sound seemed to break the tenuous connection that they had started to rebuild. Sam blinked away tears. He could not save his brother from Hell and he hadn't been able to save him from himself either. Maybe Dean just couldn't be saved. The thought made Sam's stomach clench.

* * *

 _Dean Winchester is saved_.

 _No,_ Dean thought. _He's still back in that pit_. Why couldn't he leave it behind for two freaking minutes? That moment with Sam. It was nice. It made him feel good until his thoughts circled back into how he shouldn't be happy. Didn't deserve to be happy, not after what he'd done. After what he'd seen.

Dean looked at himself in the mirror-something he hated doing nowadays. He looked drawn, worried, pale, like a hollowed-out version of what he remembered himself being. He wondered briefly what women saw in him. High cheekbones and a nice smile, but besides that what was left?

"Dean?" There is a tentative knock on the door. "You okay in there?"

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted into a bemused smirk before he pitched voice into a low impatient growl. _"Jesus Sammy_! _Can't a man piss in peace?_ I'm not going to flush myself down the toilet or anything."

There was a moment of silence on the other side. "Well you're taking the longest piss known to man is all I'm saying."

 _How long have I been in here?_ Dean wondered. He walked over and opened the door. Sam's face was directly on the other side.

"You know, sometimes I need some space to think."

"Dean, you thinking has always been a bad idea." Sam quipped. "It usually ends in slutty girls and booze."

"Only when I have _good_ ideas, Sammy. _Good_ ones." Dean shouldered his brother out of the way. "Back off, Sasquatch." But it was said with no real malice.

Dean flopped onto his bed and groaned in protest at the hardness of the mattress. He looked at Sam who was still watching him from under bangs that were halfway through growing out and had flopped into his eyes. Dean wondered how is brother could see through them.

"Sam, please stop going all Stepford on me again."

"I worry about you." The statement was so _earnest_ that it almost hurt Dean.

"Worry about yourself, man." He retorted back. "I'm fine. Have always been fine and always will be fine."

Sam didn't look ready to drop it. Dean could see the thoughts racing through his brother's head.

"I'm just," he exhaled slowly. "I'm..."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You're incapable of forming sentences, apparently."

Sam raised a finger warningly. "Don't," he said. "Don't deflect." Frustration suffused Sam's features like he couldn't articulate what he wanted.

 _Welcome to the club, bitch._ Dean thought, not at all kindly.

"I know we have our differences, but Dean, I am here for you. It might not feel it...but I am."

Dean watched the earnest blue-green eyes. Changeable in color, like Sam's own nature. Blue to green to hazel and back again. Like Sam, caring and angry and hot and cold on any given day, on any given subject. Dean studied him measuringly and knew that _this_ Sam in _this_ moment meant everything he was saying.

He nodded. "Okay Sammy, " he acknowledged. And beneath the broken void of nothingness and yet somehow pain that had become Dean's every waking emotion, he felt a stirring that took a moment to put a finger on. Then, suddenly, it became clear in Dean's mind- breaking through with sharp clarity. _Love_. It was love.

 **Finis**

 _Thanks for reading, guys. I know this isn't a full resolution, but the Winchesters never have those, do they? It reminds me of a Dumas quote, which I paraphrase here: "And he left the house where two such tender friends had not been able to understand each other-only because they understood each other too well."_


End file.
